Veil of Shadows (12 page)

Vena went white, then red. “You walk around like you’re so damned important, expect everybody to follow
your
rules, but you don’t have to. Some leader you are.”

Syn shook her head. “I do follow my own rules—has anybody ever once told you that you’re not allowed a personal life once you join this army?”

“Military leaders don’t fuck those serving under them.”

“If that military leader has spent her
entire
adult life fighting a war, she does—especially if she wants to maintain some semblance of sanity.” Syn shook her head and said, “But that’s not even the issue. You’re not mad because I’m involved with somebody serving under me—you’re mad because I’m involved with the one you set your sights on—and he’s not interested.”

Vena’s pretty face twisted into an ugly scowl, and her blue eyes glinted with rage. Jealousy didn’t set well on the woman. Not at all. “Of course he’s not going to be interested in
me
. I can’t help his position here, now can I?”

Through it all, Xan had remained silent, his arms folded over his chest, his expression unreadable. Now, though, he moved, pacing forward to stand in front of Vena. “My interest in the captain has nothing to do with my position in this army. Just like my lack of interest in you has no bearing on your lack of influence. My apologies if you cannot see that.”

Vena flinched. Muscles in her cheeks worked as she clenched her jaw. “Some fucking military unit this is—no wonder the outside world doesn’t view this place with any modicum of respect, if this is how you run things.”

She stormed out of the dormer, her shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at her side. “And I was so certain she and I could be friends,” Syn said, a sardonic smile twitching at her lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Syn glanced at him and shrugged. “I’m not. Something tells me that Vena comes from a background where the world seemed to revolve around her. She might be a talented fighter, but she’s not soldier material—this isn’t the place for her.”

A strange look crossed over his face.

Syn scowled at him. “What?”

“It is nothing,” he said, shaking his head.

“The look on your face tells me it’s something. What is it?”

A muscle pulsed in his cheek and he stared at her, that one-eyed gaze heavy with intensity. “As skilled a warrior as you are, as fine a leader as you are, part of me still feels this isn’t the place for you or any woman.”

Her belly knotted. His mind-set wasn’t an unusual one—it really wasn’t. It was one she’d faced time and again throughout her life, and one she’d have to face in the future. Repeatedly.

Pulling her gaze away from him, she seated herself back at her desk and made herself stare at the reports. Even though her mind wasn’t on them, even though her attention wasn’t on them. Quietly, she said, “Without some of the women who have served in the various rebellions throughout the world, we would have lost long ago, Xan. Anqar would have won—we would have become little more than a breeding house. Before the Gates fell, our best weapon was to disrupt the energy flow when we felt them flicker—something only a witch can do. By disrupting the energy flow, we could shut the Gate down. Sometimes. We didn’t always get there in time. But every time we forced a Gate to close, we averted a raid. We averted the loss of life. We averted losing our sisters, our mothers, our daughters, aunts and friends to a life of slavery.”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. “You don’t like seeing a woman in battle. Some part of me does understand that—in full, straight-out battle, we aren’t as strong, and unless we’re the better fighter, it’s easy to lose. But without
us
, the rebellion as you know it wouldn’t exist.”

She looked back at the spread of paperwork and made herself focus on the words, the names, the numbers. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to put my female mind to work and see if I can’t find a way to get the supplies we need without losing too many lives.”

She didn’t look up until she knew he was gone.

His point of view wasn’t necessarily wrong—she knew that. More often than not, the first to fall in direct conflict with the enemies were the women. Physically, they were weaker. More than one attack on various units throughout the years had been focused on the units that had a higher number of females—the gifted ones, always the gifted ones. Eventually, they operated by only sending out witches like Syn, Lee, or Elina who had a knack for the combative magics. Magics like calling fire, the ability for a witch to focus her gift and use it to disrupt the very ground the enemy stood upon without endangering her unit, or the other offensive magics.

Those who had gifts closer to healing or sensing disruptions were kept protected within the base camp.

He wasn’t exactly wrong. Women were more vulnerable, and those with gifts were more highly prized by the enemy, and that only increased their vulnerability.

But they were also necessary.

Syn’s gift had saved the lives of her men countless times.

Elina’s gift had saved the lives of the entire camp.

And Lee’s dual gifts—her father’s Warlord blood and her mother’s witch gift—had been the key in shutting the last remaining Gate.

They were needed here. And they had a right to be here.

Of course, she’d feel more useful in the long run if she could use her damned gift again. She felt naked without it. Naked, cold . . . and in that moment, rather lonely.

With his back to a tree, Morne Ramire sat in the night-dark forest and stared at absolutely nothing.

The camp . . . so close. What in the hell had he been thinking, letting himself come this close? If he had realized how it would affect him, he would have stayed far, far away. At least he wanted to think so.

He shouldn’t be here. No, he should be out there, continuing his search for that bastard, Dais Bogler. Find him, choke the life out of him.

But he found himself here instead. So close to the camp, he could smell the smoke from the fires. So close, he could all but feel the life there. Feel the presence of those he’d called friend.

And
her
. . . But no, he wasn’t going to let himself think of her.

They still searched for him. It had been close a couple of times. Once, Bron had walked by, close enough that if Morne had breathed too loudly, the other man likely would have heard him.

As careful as he was, as cautious, if he lingered too long this close to the base camp, then he was going to be found.

He didn’t want to be found.

Not yet. Probably never.

They’d want him to come back. He already knew. Though he hadn’t stepped foot back into the camp since the day he’d walked away, he knew he was missed. Kalen, damn the bastard, hadn’t allowed Morne’s absence to sway him.

Rarely a week went by when the commander didn’t send out a psychic probe and force Morne into talking.

It was odd, realizing that he was missed. Almost as odd as discovering he missed his friends.

Lousy thing, sometimes, having friends.

Yet it was also a lovely thing. If he would just get up off his ass, he could sleep within the camp tonight. It was a tempting thought. A bed. A few familiar faces . . . one in particular.

Her.

He closed his eyes and brought her face to mind.

Elina. She dominated his thoughts, crept up on him in the darkness, haunted his dreams. That is, she haunted what few dreams he had that weren’t centered around what he had done, the dreams that weren’t designed to kill him with the guilt.

He welcomed the guilt. Needed it. Deserved it. Deserved to see every last horrifying moment of his brother’s death. Needed it to remind him how abysmally he’d failed the one person who had always stood by him.

He deserved to suffer.

But the dreams of Elina weren’t suffering. Unless suffering could be a sweet, hot torture. Unless it could include dreams where he put that body of hers beneath him—long and lean, but still so damned female.

Of course, after the dreams, he woke with an empty ache in his heart, one he couldn’t hope to ease.

Perhaps he did deserve them. They served as a taunting reminder that he would never have her.

Living in hiding in the forest, barely scraping by, and dreaming of a winsome witch he could never have. Fitting.

“How the mighty have fallen,” he murmured to himself. The ache in his chest threatened to destroy him.

Once, he’d been only days from the preparations that would have taken him from Sirvani to Warlord. As a high-ranking Sirvani, a respected healer, his control had been absolute, control over his powers, control over those under his command, control over his emotions.

Now his powers had splintered, the thought of being around others was intolerable and he couldn’t control his emotions any easier than he could control the weather. He could do nothing to ease the ache in his heart, or the guilt, or the need, or the pain.

The pain . . . it welled up inside him. Finally, something eclipsed his rather pathetic desire to see the witch once more. From the pain came memories, memories swarming up out of the night and pulling him down.

His brother’s face, so like his own. Arnon. Grief and acceptance in his eyes as he told Morne to kill him.

He pulled away from the memories, but not in time. Deep inside his soul, he relived the very moment he felt his brother, his twin, die. Like something inside Morne had been wrenched out with brute force, and the emptiness inside him filled with ice.

For days, he had hovered on the brink of madness. It wasn’t until he accidentally came across Dais’s back trail that he realized he wasn’t ready to give in to madness or grief yet. Not while he still had revenge.

It gave him a goal. A focus. As long as he remained focused, he no longer teetered on the very edge, but now, he was once more just a breath away from oblivion. It took everything he had to simply exist and not . . . shatter. Explode. Fade away. Maybe even all three. Although the fading away bit seemed to be happening anyway. He wished it would hurry the hell up. Tonight would be ideal.

An end to the pain, the guilt, to needs he would never be able to ease.

You didn’t use to be so quick to give up, my brother
. The voice, a ghostly whisper, echoed in the back of his mind. He hung his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. If he believed in ghosts, he might have believed Arnon was haunting him.

He didn’t believe in ghosts, though. This was naught but a trick of his mind, possibly one more sign of how close he was to madness. Yet another sign was the fact that he responded.

Lips quirking up in a smile, Morne said, “If I was quick to give up, I would have done so years before now.”

But it was.

Lelia lived. Arnon was gone.

Morne had kept his promise.

What was left to him? He could give in to madness now and do it with a clear conscience.

No. He made himself climb to his feet, made himself walk away from the camp. His job wasn’t done—not yet. Not until he’d satisfied a blood debt. Dais’s blood would run red and then, maybe then, Morne would give in to the lure of madness.

He walked away from the warmth of the camp. Tonight, tomorrow night, and the next, the next . . . he’d warm himself with thoughts of vengeance and dreams of a woman he’d never have.

She dreamed of him.